France's and America's Ballooning Adventure
by Number One Fan of Journey
Summary: France and America set off to be the first to cross the English Channel in a hot air balloon. Of course, the journey doesn't go too smoothly... Based on the true story.
1. Taking Off

It was 8:00 on 7 January, 1785, and a chilly 8:00 at that. France put his hands inside his overcoat for a second to warm them, while America was too occupied eating breakfast to take much note of the temperature. Of course, the young nation's full mouth had no effect on his willingness to talk.

"This is gonna be so awesome!"

France vaguely wondered how many times the nation across the table had said that since he decided to finance the trip. It may have been a bit of an annoyance to have him yammering—especially at what seemed so early in the morning after France's antics the night before—but once America heard of the soon-to-be historic crossing, he wanted in. And could France turn down such an eager face? Certainly not after said eager face recently cut England down to size.

Nodding in response to America's outburst, France sipped at his coffee. Thanks to the cold and the hour, he'd been through several cups already, as had America. But they would need the energy. They still had work to do on the balloon, and the stress wouldn't stop once they took off. Once they were in the air, France—the only one of the pair who knew enough about the new art of ballooning—would be doing all of the work. But he could handle that. After a little more coffee.

After waving down a waitress to get a refill, America continued, "I'm gonna be on the world's first ever hot air balloon flight over the... whatever it is!"

"You mean the English Channel?" France wasn't ye tin the mood to laugh, but he did smile a bit. America was such a skilled geographer...

"Yeah, sure, that." America took another big bite of the food France had brought for the day. Unfortunately, there wasn't much left. America would have to stop soon, unless he dared to go get some food from around here. Given his previous experiences with English food, he wasn't that hopeful. He was full enough to do some work after this, anyway.

"We still have four hours before we leave," France said, "so don't get too excited just yet." He finished off his coffee and lazily swirled the remnants around the bottom of the cup. "We'll start preparing the balloon once you're ready."

America immediately chugged the rest of his drink and slammed the cup back onto the table—just barely soft enough to keep everything from breaking. "Let's go."

The pair headed down to the cliffs and set to work. America focused on attaching some four silk wings to the carriage—they weren't going to help the flight much, but they looked cool, and that was enough for him—while France set out checking and tinkering with the instruments that were a bit more necessary. They loaded the basket with some personal items, a bag of mail to be delivered, and all the equipment they needed. By the time they were ready for takeoff, the sun was thirty minutes away from its noontime position.

Taking a seat on the ground, France looked out at the growing crowd of Dover citizens. There were a few ladies his type among them, but no England as of yet. He probably wouldn't bother to come, given the two going on the flight. Ah, well. There would be time to pester him after the event.

"So, France," started America, who was spinning one of the ballast weights on his finger. "What'd you bring for lunch?"

"Lunch?" France repeated. "I didn't bring any lunch. We're not eating on this side."

From America's expression, one might think he was just told he would die within the hour. "What? I can't do this on an empty stomach!"

"We had plenty for breakfast." Obviously his and America's definitions of "plenty" differed. "Besides, we have less than half an hour before takeoff."

America put down the weight and stood. "Well, I'll just go grab something—"

"Not in this country! I'm not going to let you be poisoned right before we try to make history."

"Fine. You can make something for me." America smiled expectantly, but France was still dubious. "Please?"

"We don't have nearly enough time—"

"Hey guys!" America announced to the crowd so loudly France jumped. "We ran into some problems, and we won't be taking off until 1:00!"

France got to his feet, ready to correct the situation, but some of the crowd was already drifting away. He had little choice but to stand there dumbstruck until America slapped him on the back and started walking towards town.

* * *

After about an hour of rushed cooking for France and voracious eating for America, the two were back in the balloon. And this time, nothing could stop them from their historic trip.

Having a few minutes to spare yet, France turned to the crowd and began a strategic round of kiss-blowing. About halfway through, he saw a face that hadn't been there for their original takeoff.

"Oho! England decided to send us off after all!" France waved. "England!"

The nation in the crowd just glowered in response as he put a worn, old book back in his overcoat pocket. "I hope you both crash and die." Jolly old England.

America joined in the obnoxious waving, despite the majority of the glare aimed his way. "And I hope we don't! See you!"

With that oddly-well-timed remark, France's watch hit 1:00. The blonde gave out his last goodbyes to the crowd and then set the balloon to flight.


	2. Hanging Low

It was sort of a magical thing, the balloon slowly rising into the skies and floating through the air towards and over the water. As France checked some of the instruments, America watched the crowd and eventually the shore shrink into the distance.

There was already a problem.

America leaned over the edge of the basket the tiniest bit to see the balloon's reflection on the waves. The waves that should have been a little smaller by now.

"Is it just me, or are we flying kind of low?" America started, watching the water loom close.

"It's not just you." France glanced out at the Channel before investigating the equipment again. "The balloon's working fine, though. We're just a bit heavy." He checked the altitude. "Or more than a bit heavy." He watched the water for a brief moment before realising how silent the other side of the basket had become.

America was slumped in the proverbial corner, slowly approaching the foetal position.

"America?" France started slowly.

America didn't turn to face him, and his voice was small. "I don't eat _that_ much, do I?"

France sighed. "No, I'm sure that has nothing to do with it. There are a lot of things here dragging us down, so we should be able to drop enough pretty easily..."

America stopped shrinking and looked about his part of the basket. One of the ballast weights—which, all together, summed about 30 pounds—caught his eye. Picking it up, he turned and started, "Is it okay to drop th—" He cut off and yelped, nearly jumping out the side of the balloon.

"Hm?" France looked over his shoulder, taking his gaze off the clothes—all of his clothes—floating down towards the Channel.

America stammered for a second before shaking his head near-rabidly. "G—Gah! Warn a guy, will you?"

"Oh, sorry." France turned around—sending America's gaze sliding awkwardly back to the weight in his hands—and leant on his side of the basket. "What was it you were asking?"

"Uh..." America had to take a moment to dismiss his thoughts—that the clothes were far from the heaviest things to throw overboard, and that France had some pretty mad stripping skills—before he could remember what he was asking. "Can we drop these weight things?"

France checked the instruments again to ensure the clothes hadn't been the deciding factor in the balloon's altitude. "Well, those are for stability, but we could probably afford to lose them."

America nodded and proceeded to throw his weight overboard, then going around the balloon and tossing the others. France watched the last one hit the water. It didn't feel like the balloon was rising any more, but he checked the altitude to be sure.

"That wasn't enough," he said, looking to see what else could be dropped. His gaze rested on America a little too long for the nation's comfort.

"I am not taking any clothes off until it's absolutely necessary."

France sighed, looking away. "You're no fun, America."

"I'm plenty of fun! I just don't want to be freezing and naked when we show up on the other side, that's all."

"All right, all right." France took a minute longer before deciding what he felt was the next least necessary. "Let's drop the wings."

"What?" Apparently it was just not America's day. "But-but-but they make the balloon look so much cooler! Like an eagle or something! So we can glide to the other shore victoriously instead of bobbing over... boringly!"

With his hands already on one of the wings, France frowned. "We're either dropping these or your clothes."

America hesitated. It was long enough for France to quietly release the first of the wings.

"No!" Heartbreaking as this was to him, America couldn't do much more but stand there as the other three wings were dropped. He watched the last billowing stretch of silk disappear under the water like it was an old friend sinking to his death. Defeated, he looked out over the waves as they surely threw the wings about unmajestically under the water, so far away from where they should have been.

But not quite far enough away.

"We're still too low."

America pivoted to look back at France's face. "Are you kidding me?"

"Non." France sighed. "We're going to have to drop something else." He looked back at America, who in response clutched his coat to his torso.

America looked over at the equipment and started, "That stuff looks pretty heavy."

France moved himself between America and the instruments. "Yes, but it's also important for getting to the other side."

"How about that?" America pointed at an anchor.

"We need that to land!" Going on before America could target something else vital, France said, "I think we don't have to drop too much more weight, anyway. We should let go of the letters."

"No way!" America took the bag of envelopes in his arms. "We're trying to make history here! Why wouldn't we want to be responsible for the first batch of letters delivered this way, too?"

"Because I'd rather actually get across than drown clinging to some letters." France crossed his arms. "It's the next least necessary thing—unless you want to get rid of some clothes."

America looked down into the bag of letters, and then about the basket to make sure what France was saying was true. It sure seemed like it. But... But they would make history with these.

France, meanwhile, was watching the Channel draw closer. "America!" he shouted. "Throw something over before we hit the water!"

America looked back into the bag, his lip quavering, before finally walking with it to the edge of the basket. He took out a handful of envelopes and, after hesitating, dropped them over. "Thank you for your sacrifice!" he started, though it was unclear whether we was referring to the letters or those who were expecting to receive them. "We will remember you!" He threw another handful over and reached in for more.

"—Holy crap! There's one for Benjamin Franklin in here!"

"America," France responded.

"Okay, okay." America finally gathered up the rest of the letters in the bag and, closing his eyes, tossed it over. He couldn't even watch these sink. "Please tell me their sacrifice was worthwhile!"

France checked the water but couldn't tell. He went to the altitude display. "We rose a little bit."

America pumped his fist in the air.

"But not enough."

America facepalmed.

France sifted through the equipment America had paid for but wasn't sure what he could afford to lose. America looked about as well—but he did find something.

"Is this brandy?"

France, feeling cold for reasons other than his lack of cover, turned around to see America holding the only contents of the bag of "personal items" he had brought aboard. "Yes."

America gave France a look. "That's way less necessary than the letters! And probably heavier!"

"No, that's completely necessary!" France gasped, grabbing the neck of the bottle. "We need that to celebrate after we land!"

America tugged to get the bottle back out of France's grasp. "We're throwing this over."

"No!"

America was rather surprised when he was tackled. In this surprise, France managed to get his hands back on the bottle, but it wasn't long until America overpowered him and took it back.

"No!" France wailed, clinging to America's leg as the latter fought his way back to the edge of the basket. "Not the wine! Anything but the wine!"

America, finally at the edge, held the bottle over the water but paused. "Okay, fine."

France looked up, sniffling but with his tear-dimmed eyes hopeful.

America looked down at him. "Either we drop this, or your clothes." He stopped. "Oh, wait." He sent the brandy bottle flying down to the Channel, and France scrambled to his feet only to see it make a splash and disappear. Whimpering, he slid back down.

Seeing the navigator wasn't all that ready to check the altitude again, America walked over and checked the display himself. Not that he had any idea what it was supposed to be.

"Hey, France? How high are we supposed to be?"

France, slowly recovering from his big shock, slowly came over and looked himself. He didn't cheer up a bit. "Higher than this."

America moaned, just resisting the urge to thump his head against the equipment. "Is there anything left?"

"The bag I put the brandy in," France replied, tossing said bag over without much hope. It didn't change anything.

America peeked behind some of the instruments but didn't see anything promising. "So, is all that's left the stuff we need to get over there?"

"Just about."

America started to turn to see what else France could have been talking about, but he hit his head.

"Ow—hey!" By the time he realised France was ripping his coat off him, it was too late to stop him. America finally squirmed his way out of the space and looked France in the eye. France, with one hand on the steering equipment and the other throwing the coat over, looked right back.

After a minute, America finally conceded, "Fine." He took off his shirt, footwear, and trousers, and threw them over. France was still looking at him.

"I'm still not taking off my underwear, sorry."

"But the only thing left is the instruments!" France, just to be sure, checked the altitude. "And we're still way too low."

America crossed his arms. "I guess it's time to toss the instruments, then."


	3. Touching Down

America started towards the congregation of equipment and looked it over. "I don't think we need the thermometer too much," he started, picking that up and throwing it over. He scrutinised some of the rest. "And I'm not even sure what this is, so we can probably trash it." He threw the barometer over, followed shortly by the telescope, and stepped over to the edge. Holding on since the balloon was swaying with every motion, he looked over the water. No noticeable difference.

By then France had started discarding things, too. More equipment over, including anchors and the rest of the scientific instruments. When both had finished their mad rampage, all that was left was the steering.

"How's the water look?" France called, carefully guiding them in the direction of the distant and hazy French shore.

America leant over a little, sending the basket rocking. "No fricking way!" He manoeuvred closer to the centre. "There's, like, no difference, man!"

France grimaced, working with the steering until he felt their course was stable enough. "I guess you'd better take the rest off and hope it works." He didn't seem quite as upset about that.

"These weigh nothing! If we want to lose any real weight, we should get rid of that steering thing!"

France gripped said steering thing again. "This is the last piece left on this balloon that gives us any control over it! We can't throw it over!"

"We can't crash into the water, either!"

France refused to be swayed. "Just take off—" He stopped when America suddenly ripped the equipment away from him and the basket. It was over the edge before France could blink.

America looked over the edge, but the basket almost turned on its side. France stumbled but managed to get across from the other passenger, and the still-swinging basket evened out.

"Did it work?" America called, trying to get the bangs out of his eyes if only the wind would stop blowing them.

France dared to lean over a bit to look. "I think so!" he finally called. Indeed, the waves started to shrink beneath them. America gave a victory whoop and looked out over the horizon as the balloon progressed.

But then the crash of waves grew a bit louder.

Looking down again, America saw that the waves had stopped shrinking. In fact, the froth was starting to become more detailed. Which could only mean...

"We're sinking again!" America hollered, though France had noted this on his side as well.

"There's only one thing left to drop," France replied, looking over his shoulder.

"I'm telling you, it won't be heavy enough!" America watched the Channel approach for a while longer before he started to realise what he had to do.

Quivering, France watched the water. Then the basket suddenly jerked beneath him, and he had to grab onto the side as the ground lurched away. Once he was stable enough, he looked behind him to see America balanced precariously with one foot on the edge of the basket.

"What are you doing?" France shouted.

America didn't look back. "If I don't make it out of this, just promise you'll remember my sacrifice! Tell the story of the hero who saved this historic balloon! Tell it for generations! Tell—" Though France had been yelling America's name several times now, only now did he stop talking. "What?"

"Don't do anything drastic! There's still a chance we can go back up if you just take off your underwear!"

"Will you quit pushing that already?" America yelled back, not budging. "Now since you interrupted by Heroic Sacrifice monologue, I'll have to start it all over!" He cleared his throat and prepared to start again.

"By the time you finish, we'll probably be sunk!" France snapped before he could start.

"Okay, okay!" America looked down into the thrashing depths of the Channel. If only it didn't have to end this way. If he had just waited for lunch. ANd maybe not have eaten so much for breakfast...

Suddenly a new idea suddenly struck him. "Hang on! I'm going to step back!"

"Got it!" France clung to the edge as America moved, sending the basket shaking. And, at last, America put his thumbs under his waistband at both hips. But he didn't move anything just yet.

"What—"

"France!" America interrupted. "We had an awful lot of coffee this morning, don't you think?"

France was bewildered. "What? Yes, but what does that—"

"And I don't think you've used the bathroom, either, right?"

France finally started to get the picture. And after some tiptoeing and basket-shaking, the poor English Channel found itself being urinated in by two desperate nations.

They really _had_ had a lot of coffee, because once they were done, the balloon was on its way up again. It wasn't quite going in the right direction, but it was headed to France, it was above the water, and—

And it was going back down again.

Before either passenger had realised the turn of events, the basket suddenly dragged on the water's surface. With a confused and terrified yelp, France was suddenly in the air, clinging to one of the ropes. America emitted a yelp himself as the basket went completely off-balance. France suddenly realised this was sort of his fault and dared to climb back down.

With the bottom of the basket a hair's breadth above the water's surface and the coast so tantalisingly close on the water, the two nations prepared to be thrown off completely.

Their vision was blocked when the air whipped around them. But their hair wasn't the only thing suddenly blown up and away. The balloon was rising, too. And with this sudden, strong updraft, it wasn't going back down anytime soon.

America whooped again as the waves shrunk and blurred beneath them as they went higher and higher, and closer to the coast.

Then he shivered. The height seemed fine for the balloon, but it was too high for the passengers. Between the high altitude, the January winds, and the lack of clothing, it didn't take long before their fingers and toes were utterly numb. The rest of their limbs was starting to follow.

"I-i-i-it's too c-c-cold!" France hollered. America's teeth were chattering too hard for him to get out any sarcastic comeback.

Daring to inch closer to the centre, France continued, "We n-n-n-need to c-c-conserve b-body heat! C-c-c-come to the m-m-middle with me!"

America only budged because the basket was starting to list to his side. He managed to gain control enough over his jaw to inform France of this. "A-a-and if you t-t-touch me, you'll b-b-b-be conserving heat with th-th-the f-fish."

"F-f-f-fine. Once a-a-again, you're n-n-n-no f-fun."

The two stood there awkwardly, a little bit of space between them, as the balloon finally came over to the shore. And kept going.

"Wh-when do we l-land?" America started as trees started to pass beneath them.

France shrugged. "We th-threw landing e-e-equipment over! I-I don't know wh-what we're g-going to d-do!"

They shivered a while longer, watching the land pass beneath them, until another wind caught them.

This one was a downdraft.

The balloon descended rapidly as the basket swayed, sending both nations stumbling and flailing for the sides. Even gripping those, the two couldn't do much but squirm as the trees came closer and closer.

"I'm going to try to pull us to a stop before we can go any further down!" France said, one arm attaching him solidly to the basket and the other now reaching out towards the impending treetops. He grabbed at the ends of a branch, but the velocity was too much for him—he lost his grip before he could pull anything. He tried this a few more times before America said, "Let me try it!"

Wrapping an arm around one of the ropes, America reached out and seized the first treetop he could reach. The basket jerked when his arm was fully stretched out, and France toppled onto the floor. With a loud grunt, America kept pulling, and the balloon swayed and shook, but it also slowed down. By the time America's frozen fingers were unable to hold on any longer, the balloon was lazily drifting downwards.

France righted himself, and both were clinging to the sides of the basket when it finally touched down. The balloon flopped and rolled, but when it came to a stop, France and America climbed out without any new injuries.

"We made it!" France gave a somewhat hysterical laugh. "We made it!"

"It?" America repeated, grinning wildly. "We made _history_!"

The two stood there, recovering a bit from the chill, celebrating, and—at least one of them—mourning the loss of the brandy, until some footsteps started to come through the trees.

"Hello?" America started, stepping over in that direction.

"Hey!" a voice called back. There wasn't much more waiting to do before the small group of farmers broke into the clearing.

"I told you I saw a balloon," the biggest man said, laughing, as the others followed him and looked at the newcomers. The smallest of the group, a girl, turned beet-red and hid her face behind the other man's back. The first man, her father, looked over his shoulder at her and back at the ballooners, and laughed.

"How about we get you some clothes?" he started.

"Please," America replied.

* * *

After some handing over of clothing, the farmers agreed to give the nations a ride over to Calais, where they knew a crowd was waiting for the balloon to come. And the crowd was hardly less excited when they found out the balloon had gone a bit off-course—after all, it had still made it.

America and France stood in the centre of the crowd and the excitement. Fortunately, despite the horrible loss on the journey, some of the non-aviators had brought a bit of brandy along, and one now rose for a toast.

"To the brave men who today became the first to fly across the Channel!"

A cheer followed, with a bit on clinking and a bit more drinking.

"And," America added in proudly, "the first to fly mail across the Channel!"

Another round of clinks and drinks followed, while France pulled America over a little bit.

"What are you talking about?" France whispered. "You know we got rid of all the mail a long while before we landed."

"Did we?" America grinned broadly and retrieved the one letter he had snuck under his underpants waistband when France wasn't looking.

The letter addressed to Benjamin Franklin.

* * *

**A/N:** And that's the end. Most of it is true (other than them being nations rather than humans, and a few details), but if you'd like to read the real story, I got my version from _Uncle John's Endlessly Engrossing Bathroom Reader_ (don't judge). Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you later~


End file.
